After a martini I imagine
the smooth salted enamel
wonder if enzymes do harm
but a voice within says savor
that last cocktail olive, bulged
with sleek garlic, white tip peeks
from the green tunnel, slips
away into briny bliss, floating
in its sea jar. 

Oh, gorged green olive sailing
across the salty sea to America, free
to roll on tongues that will never
see the bleached hills of your birth
the gnarled fingers that plucked
you from thready, peeling branches
thinned by the Greek sun, yet
bursting with green globes
to bathe my waiting mouth
parched from a shriveled life; I quiver
like ancient olive roots there, thirsting,
here, a new season, under my blazing,
Kentucky bluegrass sky.